


Slow

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Established Relationship, F/M, Forehead Touching, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Movie(s), Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8238572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: She doesn’t want to hurry, she wants to make the most of him.Fill for the smutty_arts art prompt challenge, inspired by youkaiyume's’s wonderful NSFW art





	

That night, they have dinner with the others from the Fury Road, still a close-knit group. Furiosa is talking to Toast when Capable, sitting further down the table, asks about the new war rig crew. Furiosa turns her head to find Max looking at her. When she meets his gaze, she can see his pupils widen, his eyes going as dark as if the light had changed.

A wave of heat passes over her, like a gust of wind scouring her skin. Her nipples tighten, her muscles tingling. It’s all she can do to keep her seat, to answer Capable’s question in a voice that she knows has gone husky. As she finishes speaking, as Capable turns back to Gilly, she feels Max press his thigh to hers. She’s urgently aware of the scent of his skin, even here at table with his clothes on. 

Max is leaving in the morning. He’s going because she asked him to – or, at least, the council had agreed they needed more information from out in the wasteland, and Max had offered. He’s going on her behalf, not because the desert is calling him. Sometimes it feels as though she’s sending him away. 

They leave the table soon afterwards. As soon as they’re round the first bend of the stairs, he starts kissing her. Then he tugs at her hand, pulling her through the winding stone corridors. He’s not quite running, but moving fast enough that she can see the unevenness of his gait, the limp that sometimes shows when he’s in haste or in pain.

Inside her room, they shut and lock the door and fall back against it. His cock is hard against her thigh, his hands stroking over her, fumbling with haste and need. Heat washes over her again. She feels as much as hears his growl, a rumble in his chest where they’re pressed together.

It’s frantic and messy and wonderful, but suddenly it’s not what she wants. She doesn’t want to hurry, she wants to make the most of him, to count every second of these last hours.

She pulls away, panting as she struggles to get her own eager body under control. He makes a needy noise, hands still on her.

She cups his face, one metal hand and one flesh, holds him steady as she kisses him, forcing herself to go slow. It’s wrenching, holding herself back, but the slowness feels right. He makes a noise and melts against her. She’s pressed against the door, feeling his full weight on her, solid and safe.

“Want you naked,” she tells him, her voice rough. He clings closer, kissing her neck. “I want – I need to go slow.” He growls again, mouth on her shoulder, one hand stroking carefully up her arm. She’s almost whining at it. Her skin prickles under the slow, warm touch, being teased with exactly what she asked for.

Getting their clothes off is messy, full of clinging and groping. Sometimes one or both of them speeds up, gets frantic again. His hands are unusually clumsy on the belts of her prosthetic. Once her arm is off and her bodice unwrapped, he falls into her, pressing close. She can feel the warmth and solidity of his body through her soft shirt, and holds him tighter.

He lets his jacket fall on the floor, gets tangled taking his shirt off. The way she’s burrowing into his chest probably isn’t helping. He drops to a crouch to undo her boots, unfastens her trousers while he’s down there. Reaching for her underwear, he slides his hand between her legs. The fabric is soaked; she whimpers as he cups her, bucking against his hand. He kisses her thigh before pulling her knickers down, stepping away to undo his brace.

Once they’re both naked, she pulls him back to her, arms wrapped around him, scrambling into his space. They stumble to the bed, Furiosa backing Max. He sits down suddenly when his calves bump the mattress, starts kissing her hip. She strokes her hand through his hair, then nudges him back, keeps pushing until he lies down.

“Slow, slow.” She’s reminding herself as much as him, seeing him stretched out for her, pale and sun-warmed skin, his cock hard against his belly. 

Max’s gaze can be unsteady. Perhaps there will always be times when his eyes dart nervously, but he’s staring at her now. It makes her heart clench.

She sits beside him, leans in to kiss his thigh, the smooth, strong curve of muscle. Then she deliberately moves down to his left knee, with its mass of scar tissue. The old wound hurts him from inside, she knows, but not on the surface. She lets her lips follow the lines of scars, gentle and soft, before moving up his leg to suck a harder kiss on his thigh. He shivers, goosebumps forming.

Her mouth has left a rosy patch on his skin. She wonders if it will bruise, thinks of him carrying it into the wastes, where bruises are so commonplace that it will make no difference. She kisses the mark again, softer this time. 

Working over his thighs, she thinks of going down, just lavishing attention on him, but she wants more closeness than that. She presses her face to the crease of his hip, feeling hot skin and a tickle of hair, breathing in musk.

She does get her mouth on him, a hard suck that makes him groan, but pulls off to kiss her way up his belly. She’s still making herself go slowly, lingering and nibbling over muscle and hip bone, ribs and scars, missing nothing and loving everything. Max moans again and lifts her up, pulling her onto him, holding her so tight that it makes them both breathless. His cock is pressed between them; he grunts when she squirms against him. 

Panting, she gets her legs apart, her knees under her, so she can straddle him properly. She gets onto him in a single wet slide, her body both filled and hungry. Resting her nub on his chest, she can feel his heart pounding. Max pulls her closer. 

He’s going tomorrow, which makes this a farewell, alongside all the other things it is. Furiosa doesn’t define the others, even to herself. She presses her forehead to his.

It’s a Vuvalini gesture, something she couldn’t have for so long, lost for seven thousand days. She doesn’t know if that’s what makes it overwhelming now, when she can let herself do this again. Or perhaps the intensity is built into the touch itself, into the closeness and the trust of it. It’s a greeting that offers everything she is, all her past and all her present. Her eyes close as their foreheads touch, her hand clenching in the pillow above his head.

His hands are warm on her back, on her buttock, holding her close. Her breath is coming in sobs.

She opens her eyes to find him staring up at her, his look as wide and dark as it had been at dinner. Her body responds just as helplessly now, a pulse in her cunt, her muscles clenching around him without her control. Her toes twitch.

Max is stroking her, making soft little noises that are half comfort, half hunger. Furiosa grips his shoulder and kisses him, greedy, her hand in his hair. She’s clinging to him as she starts to rock.

She needs to move, but doesn’t want to sit up, doesn’t want to pull away from him. She shuffles and grinds and whimpers. He thrusts up, a pressure and drag inside her that makes her body light up, wrenching a moan out of her. He does it again, both of them squirming until they get the rhythm of it, steady and not too fast. 

Her eyes close, their foreheads back together, his heart beating under her forearm. It feels perfect and endless, being wrapped around him, their bodies working together. She thinks she might come just from this. She can feel his breath on her cheek, sweat on her back and behind her knees.

Max has one arm around her waist, keeping them both steady as they grind. He slides the other hand up to her breast, thumbing her nipple, then down again, between her legs. She groans when he strokes her, still slow. She wants to speed up, she wants this not to end.

He thrusts up harder, hips pumping, reaching the point where his body takes over and he finds it hard to stop. His arm tightens around her waist, his fingers working faster. He comes before she does, hand still stroking as he shudders into her. 

Furiosa is trembling, sweaty and gasping as she starts to come. When she opens her eyes, she finds him watching her. His face is very tender, something protective in the way he looks at her, in the way he’s holding her. It makes him look as vulnerable as she feels, bare and shaking as her body lets go.

She sprawls over him, panting, tucking her face against his neck. He puts both arms around her, warm and close. It’s a while before she’s ready to get up.

They’re both sticky and slippery with sweat; she feels both unwound and slightly shaky. When they do move apart, they’re clumsy, a little shy of looking at each other. Furiosa needs a moment to put herself back together. She suspects he does, too.

By the time she stands up, dry-mouthed and shivery, she’s able to meet his gaze again. Max reaches out and draws her back into his lap, letting her snuggle against him. When he cradles her head in one large hand, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. Instead, he carefully rests his forehead on hers.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
